


it led me right to you

by vivelapluto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 17:57:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18103544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivelapluto/pseuds/vivelapluto
Summary: french presses and pickup lines, or combeferre, who simply wants to get a coffee, and courfeyrac, who writes notes on the cup that make his heart skip a beat





	it led me right to you

Combeferre should really start paying more attention.

Enjolras has waxed poetic about this damn cafe, and he was fairly sure he’d recommended no less than three of his favorite things to order, but here Combeferre is, staring blankly at the menu while the person behind him taps their foot impatiently.

Finally, he caves in to the pressure, blurting out a hurried, “surprise me,” and avoiding eye contact with the barista as he walks away.

That’s definitely a jerk move.

When his name is called, he grabs the cup, offering a sheepish smile to the man, who winks back.

Combeferre takes a sip. 

It’s certainly surprising, that’s for sure. If anything, he would’ve expected the barista to go simple, tried and true.

But that’s not to say he doesn’t like this.

It’s so strong it feels as though his head is throbbing, and suddenly he’s hyper-aware of his surroundings.

He’s about to throw out the empty cup when he spots a smudge of marker on his thumb. Frowning, he searches for the source of the mark. 

There’s a message scrawled onto the coffee cup, slightly smeared but still legible:  _I like my coffee how I like my men: tall, hot, and strong. ;)_

Combeferre nearly chokes.

* * *

He’s back the next day, he’s not sure why.

It’s the same barista that’s there, and even though he’s actually taken the time to remember what Enjolras said, the first words out of his mouth as he approaches the register are, “surprise me. Something different than yesterday.”

He doesn’t look away this time, instead intently studying the barista’s face, his bright eyes, the curve of his jawline … 

“Excuse me,” the woman behind him says timidly.

Combeferre shakes himself from his stupor, offering a smile that he hopes isn’t too awkward as he walks to the side to wait for his order.

It’s something different this time, not quite as strong, but with hints of vanilla and cinnamon and other flavors he can’t quite pinpoint.

He almost forgets to check the cup before he throws it out, but at the last minute he turns it to read the side:  _Been thinking about you a latte <3 chai hope you’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout me. _

_Chai._

Well, that explains the unknown flavor, Combeferre realizes. There’s a soft smile on his lips as he walks right past the trash can, still holding the cup.

He leaves it on the counter after rinsing it out at home.

He’s really not sure why.

* * *

It’s like clockwork, the way he ends up at the cafe the next day.

Clockwork, that he again tells the barista to surprise him — today noting his open smile that causes Combeferre’s heart to skip a beat.

Clockwork that he sips the coffee, tries to decipher it — much sweeter than the last few, but he doesn’t think it’s sugar — and then can hardly wait to check what’s written today. 

 _Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here’s my number, so caramel me maybe?,_  followed by a phone number.

Combeferre almost rolls his eyes.

Almost.

Obviously, he’s not going to call, that would be — 

That would be —

Preposterous.

Still, he places this cup next to yesterday’s, for some reason unable to fathom throwing it away.

* * *

The barista isn’t there the next day.

There’s another woman behind the counter, one that smiles placidly and to whom Combeferre mumbles out one of Enjolras’s orders.

It’s far too bland.

His name is misspelled on the cup.

“Where’s — “ Combeferre falters, realizing he doesn’t even know the barista’s name. “The other one,” he stammers out.

“Who, Courfeyrac?” the woman replies listlessly. “He’s off for a bit. Boss didn’t say why. Maybe he got a new job … “

Combeferre throws out the cup half-full. 

When he gets home, he automatically finds the other cups.

His fingers dial the number without him quite realizing it. When a voice on the other end says “hello?”, the next words tumble out.

“Courfeyrac? It’s Combeferre. From the cafe …”

Courfeyrac’s laugh makes Combeferre’s next breath catch in his throat. 

“Surprise.” Combeferre finishes, and then almost winces.

“How the tables have turned,” Courfeyrac replies. 

It’s Combeferre’s turn to laugh now.

“Listen, you want to get coffee or something?” Courfeyrac asks.

Combeferre smiles. “Isn’t that ironic?”

“I know a really great place, don’t worry! Tomorrow at eleven?”

Combeferre doesn’t even think before answering, “it’s a date.”


End file.
